


Letters to the Dead

by carltzmann



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Johnlock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Like not kidding there is a ton of angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:44:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carltzmann/pseuds/carltzmann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a series of letters from John to Sherlock, an assignment from his therapist. Super angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letter #1

**Author's Note:**

> John gets suicidal. He doesn't act on this but...just a warning.

Dear Sherlock,

I don't really feel like doing this, but my therapist wants me to. There's no point, in reality. You're dead and you're staying dead.

Right now, I'm feeling angry about it. Angry that you cared so little about the people who love you. Angry that Anderson and Donovan are walking around happily when they drove you to suicide. Angry that you told me it had always been a lie. Angry that now I'll never know. Angry that a hopeful voice in the back of my head says you found a way to survive.

Because I know you didn't survive. I saw your broken body on that street. I checked your pulse, I think. I visit your grave every once in a while. You changed my life, Sherlock, and now I can't thank you for it. It's so damned stupid, all of this. I'm stupid, you're stupid.

I was once under the delusion that you loved me. Now I know you never did. You're cold, and the warmth of love would've burned you. Plus, you jumped. If you had loved me, you never would've done that. You would've thought of me and stepped away from the edge. You even said you loved me once. You whispered it on a case. You were deducing, muttering to yourself, and I heard it come out of your mouth. "I love John." I never said anything about it, but I thought maybe...nevermind.

I'm lost. I'm lost without you. I have nothing to do with my life, nowhere to go. You were everything to me, Sherlock. Then you threw it all away. It must've been real easy for you, to jump. It must've been really easy for you to only think of yourself and then dive towards the ground. It must've been easy, but now my life's harder than it's ever been.

In the war, I knew my enemy and I knew my friends. I knew who would shoot me. But now, the only person who wants to shoot me is myself.

John H. Watson


	2. Letter #2

Dear Sherlock,

Are you in heaven? I was thinking about this and I had to write it down. Cause when you were alive you did things that would've gotten you sent to hell straightaway, but you also saved lives. You stopped demons.

I don't know if I believe in the afterlife, but I definitely believe that there are demons in the world. Maybe not people, but their actions. And of course, there are angels, not people but their incredible ability to love. You weren't an angel. But you were far from demonic.

You would've said it's all bullshit, but I think it makes sense. There's something supernatural about kindness and greed. I have to believe in something when I don't have you to love.

And yeah, I loved you. I'm not sure if I loved you romantically or not. I'll never know now, but it's worth speculating. You were my sun, though. Everyone else was just a planet or an asteroid, but you...you were the light of my life. There's no point in hiding that now that you're gone.

You were handsome, too. Everyone talked about your cheekbones behind your back. You could've gotten any girl if you put on a facade, but you never did. I don't know why. Your feelings were locked away in your mind palace, somewhere only you had access to. It frustrated the hell out of me that I could never read you. I wear my heart on my sleeve, usually. But sometimes it seemed like you didn't have a heart.

Talking about you in past tense feels weird. You should be looking over my shoulder while I type, or putting heads in the microwave just to see what happens. But you're buried in the cemetery. Or hidden somewhere I'll never find you. I cant bear to wonder where.

I'm not feeling too suicidal at the moment. Dying would be so selfish to the people who knew both of us. I like to think my death would be tragedy to someone. And seeing how I'm nicer to most people than you ever were, and we're broken about you, it probably would be.

Does thinking about your own death mean you're suicidal? I don't think so. It's got me thinking about your death. There wasn't a funeral, not in the traditional sense. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly came to 221B and we had dinner and just kind of talked about this. What we would do with your stuff. We all decided it would be better to pack some stuff up but leave most of it out. It felt wrong to move the dusty skull and your maps.

I'm thinking I'll move out soon. I hate living with ghosts.

John H. Watson


	3. Letter #3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is really short, but...it's all angst. All of it.

Dear Sherlock,

I'm tired of this, living without you. I'd like to die, but I feel an obligation to keep living. So I keep living. I think it's, stupidly, because I can't help but expect you to come back soon. My therapist says that's normal, but I need to find a reason to keep living. I haven't found a real motivation yet.

You were my motivation, once upon a time. I felt like you needed me. And it was fun. You were fun. You were...amazing. Now I feel like a void has opened up inside me. Please, come fill that void. I need you, Sherlock. I need you to walk through that door or I'll lose myself.

You never do.

I lost myself a long time ago. I'm just a hole now. It started at my heart. Now it's grown to engulf my entire torso. Someday, I just won't be here anymore.

John H. Watson


	4. Letter #4

Dear Sherlock,

I feel so sad right now. I want it to end. I've got painkillers in the cabinet. Sometimes I open a bottle up and take one, but it never helps with my heart. I just don't want to start an addiction. Mrs. Hudson would notice. I wish I could bottle up my sadness for when I need it. Right now I don't, but it's killing me anyway.

You weren't just a friend, you have to understand. You were the best person in my life. Everyone else could die and I would still have your hand to hold, in a metaphorical sense. You were there. You aren't anywhere now. I could scour the earth and I'd find nothing.

And then I think maybe I would. Maybe you never died. Maybe you're still alive somewhere. Sometimes Anderson tells me about his ridiculous theories and I smile. At least he is filled with hope. It replaces his guilt. But I have no guilt about this, and I have a fizzling drop of hope. It's like gold when you first touch it, but then you realize your hand went right through, and it fades away.

I'm crying, and I don't know why. I haven't cried yet, except for when you died. When I saw you there. It's like my tear ducts just shut down. My sadness was always too much to carry in salt water. Now, I guess, it's fizzed up enough inside me that something has to come out.

I just wander around the flat, mostly. Or I stare at the TV. News and crap telly seem so aimless to me right now. Why should I care about stupid stuff like that?

My therapist says I need something to distract me. You used to be what distracted me, but now I have nightmares almost every night and nothing to do. Mrs. Hudson's encouraging me to go work at a clinic or something. I'm shrinking. The hole is still growing. I wish it would swallow me up already.

John H. Watson


End file.
